Page 31 of Where the Snakes Sleep

I step inside, my eyes widening as I look around us. The shelves go up two floors, and the books are packed so tight it’s like a wall of knowledge is holding the ceiling up.

“Wow,” I murmur under my breath.

An amused quirk of his lips tells me he heard me. I blush and return to looking at the room.

I turn to a glowing panel at the far side of the library, expecting a window. Instead, behind thick laminated glass, a mass of green leaves and limbs hides something long and coiled.

“Holy—” I catch myself. “That’s a snake,” I say, voice brittle.

It’s huge. My chest grows tight as I take in its dark, almost olive-colored body and the pale yellow splotches that peek out from its underbelly.

The cage is basically a rainforest diorama, complete with a little ceramic pond and a heat lamp, but my brain can’t get past the fact that I’m in a library with a monster that could, in theory, kill me.

“Yes. That’s Raja,” Camille says, pronouncing it somewhere between French and something else. He follows my gaze, settling next to me in a way that puts exactly two inches between our arms. “He’s a Malaysian king cobra.”

“That’s a… king cobra?” I swallow. “And it’s in your library?”

He makes a small noise in his throat. “He gets too stressed when around the others. Plus, as you can see, he has quite a large enclosure. He’s much more comfortable here than in the tank he had before.”

I think I’ve stopped breathing.

“O-others?” I squeak out.

“Yes, others,” he answers, his brows drawn together like he’s confused at my reaction. After a few seconds, his face softens, and he lets out a small laugh. “Of course you’re surprised. My apologies. I forgot we haven’t gotten that far yet. I am a researcher at the university in the city. Toxicology and venom studies. I also teach occasionally, adjunct. Animal toxins, advanced organic chemistry… You do not like snakes?” He cocks his head, watching me with more than casual interest.

I catch my reflection in the glass, looking like a ghost behind the snake. “I mean, it’s not that I don’t like them, exactly. It’s just… I’ve never been this close to something that could… I don’t know, kill me?”

“Every day, we are close to a million things that can kill us. Most of them do not look so beautiful.”

I try to laugh in response, but my voice cracks, so I focus on the floor.

The nerve endings along my spine are itchy with awareness; I can feel the thing’s attention from the other side of the glass. Camille’s eyes dart from the cobra to me, then linger on the bare skin above my trousers. He steps even closer, so the back of his hand brushes against my arm.

“The enclosure is reinforced. There’s no chance of him escaping.”

“Good to know.” I try to inject some bravado, but it comes out pretty weak.

“Come,” Camille says softly, and the space between us collapses as he puts a hand on my lower back. His palm is warm, and the contact almost makes me jump out of my skin.

As he guides me closer to the snake, to a small table with two plates set out and a small candle between them, his thumb strokes my exposed skin before pressing into a hollow just above my waistband. The action quite literally causes me to ache as my dick throbs from arousal.

I almost whine when his touch disappears as he slips around to the other side of the table to pull my chair out, and when I sit, I realize I’ve been clutching my bag to my chest the whole time. I set it on the floor and try to act like my heart isn’t trying to jump through my teeth.

Camille sits across from me, drawing my attention back to the man in front of me from the deadly creature at my side. He pours wine into two little glasses and comments, “I hope you are not allergic to fish.”

“Oh, uh, no, I’m not,” I stutter, forcing a smile and trying to shake off the fear and focus on the incredibly sexy Frenchman who’s put together such a nice meal for us.

He smiles. “Very good. It’s crudo with citrus and olive oil.”

I look down at my plate, a bit taken aback by the beautiful presentation, then notice— “Is this raw?”

He chuckles like I’ve told a joke. “Well, yes. That is what crudo means, after all.”

I flush in embarrassment, my tongue feeling heavy as words escape me.

He must take pity on me, because his smile softens, and he explains, “It is somewhat similar to ceviche. But as ceviche is marinated, crudo is lightly dressed. I have prepared sea bass for our meal today. There is also bread that you can eat along with it.”

“That’s… cool. I mean, I’m not a picky eater, you know? I’ll eat anything,” I say, because I have to defend my American-ness and because, apparently, I’m now wanting his approval.